Some days I am full of motivation, full of hope. Some days I understand the concept of "one day at a time" and I act accordingly. Some days I review the myriad constructive tools I have learned to cope with my struggles, and choose one that fits the situation. Some days are good.
Today isn't one of those days.
There's a quirky little trait about people with unresolved trauma. Little things, insignificant to most, can propel us damaged folks right back to a place we desperately want to avoid. The memories come pouring in. Awful images seep into every crevice of our brains, crowding out everything else. It's suffocating. It's crazy-making.
In those moments, when reality is replaced by nightmare, it's awfully hard to maintain the recovery momentum. Sick just seems so much easier, promises so much relief. Being sick froze my emotions solid. Now recovery is thawing them out, and I feel like I'm drowning in the run-off.
My only solace is the knowledge that the worst is over. Memories, terrifying as they may be, can never be as bad as the original event. This pain, raw as it is, will not last forever.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Slow and Steady
I had this picture in my head of what treatment would be like this time. Since it was the first time I actually wanted to get better, I assumed the experience would go something like this: I would show up, understanding all the rules and accepting them without question. I would impress all the staff with my knowledge and insight, and gain their praise for my willingness and dedication. I would eat the prescribed amount, never questioning it, knowing that it was what my body needed. I would sail on through, getting out after four weeks, never to struggle again.
Boy was I delusional. Here's a more accurate picture of what transpired. I arrived, shell-shocked and clinging to my husband like a spider monkey. I tried to convince him, as he was getting in the car to leave, that this was all a big misunderstanding and he should just take me home with him. I looked at my first meal with great scrutiny, analyzing the calorie count and mentally murdering the dietitian who prescribed it. I walked into my first therapy session absolutely terrified, declaring that I was unable to cry and therefore could not partake in whatever "healing" was deemed necessary for me. I got mad. I yelled and fumed and swore. I crossed my arms and flatly refused some of the food. When my meal plan was increased (as it would be many times), I wrote scathing notes to my dietitian. Despite my previous admonition, I did cry. A lot. Sobbed. Heaved, even. I talked about things I haven't thought about in years. Those four easy weeks turned into ten agonizing ones. When I finally did get "out," I had to recognize that my healing had only just begun.
Recovery isn't neat and tidy. Rather, it's messy, excruciating, and painfully slow. I have been home for two and a half weeks now, attending my outpatient program five days a week, and to be honest I am more mentally exhausted than I ever have been. As I told my therapist a few days ago, "I am afraid of going backward, afraid of going forward, and miserable where I am." True, my eating disordered behaviors are under control; tomorrow will mark three months (!) since I have acted out by binging and purging, restricting, or over-exercising. While I recognize that as a true victory, I also know that the real work is only just starting. Now I am digging into the reasons I have abused myself for so many years, and frankly, it sucks. I don't enjoy that kind of brutally honest self-analysis. It hurts.
When I get discouraged by the slowness of my progress (which is, ummm, daily), I have to remind myself that it took me a lifetime to get as sick as I was. Healing is not going to take place overnight. It truly is one day at a time. And, for the first time, I see that I don't have to do it alone. For that I am very grateful.
Boy was I delusional. Here's a more accurate picture of what transpired. I arrived, shell-shocked and clinging to my husband like a spider monkey. I tried to convince him, as he was getting in the car to leave, that this was all a big misunderstanding and he should just take me home with him. I looked at my first meal with great scrutiny, analyzing the calorie count and mentally murdering the dietitian who prescribed it. I walked into my first therapy session absolutely terrified, declaring that I was unable to cry and therefore could not partake in whatever "healing" was deemed necessary for me. I got mad. I yelled and fumed and swore. I crossed my arms and flatly refused some of the food. When my meal plan was increased (as it would be many times), I wrote scathing notes to my dietitian. Despite my previous admonition, I did cry. A lot. Sobbed. Heaved, even. I talked about things I haven't thought about in years. Those four easy weeks turned into ten agonizing ones. When I finally did get "out," I had to recognize that my healing had only just begun.
Recovery isn't neat and tidy. Rather, it's messy, excruciating, and painfully slow. I have been home for two and a half weeks now, attending my outpatient program five days a week, and to be honest I am more mentally exhausted than I ever have been. As I told my therapist a few days ago, "I am afraid of going backward, afraid of going forward, and miserable where I am." True, my eating disordered behaviors are under control; tomorrow will mark three months (!) since I have acted out by binging and purging, restricting, or over-exercising. While I recognize that as a true victory, I also know that the real work is only just starting. Now I am digging into the reasons I have abused myself for so many years, and frankly, it sucks. I don't enjoy that kind of brutally honest self-analysis. It hurts.
When I get discouraged by the slowness of my progress (which is, ummm, daily), I have to remind myself that it took me a lifetime to get as sick as I was. Healing is not going to take place overnight. It truly is one day at a time. And, for the first time, I see that I don't have to do it alone. For that I am very grateful.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Treatment: Redux
A funny thing happened on the way to insanity.
So. I went back to treatment. It was supposed to be 4-6 weeks. It ended up being 10. 10 weeks of residential treatment, followed by an indefinite number of weeks in Intensive Outpatient Treatment. How'd this happen, you ask? Hell if I know.
See, here's the thing. I lie exceptionally well. I have always had an uncanny ability to make people believe whatever I want them to believe (and, often, what they themselves want to believe). I had everyone convinced that my recovery was strong and reliable. That, though I still struggled with unhealthy thoughts, my behaviors had been under control for some time. That, my friends, was a collossal untruth.
The reality is, I've been in the midst of relapse for over two years. I have vacillated between periods of restricting (at times meeting full diagnostic criteria for anorexia) and binging and purging (nearly always meeting DSM-IV criteria for bulimia). My behaviors were easy to hide, my weight fluctuations easy to explain away. I even kept up this blog, extolling the virtues of healthy living. Oops.
The turning point came when my health began to really suffer and I could no longer deny the danger I was in. My heart, my stomach, my esophogus. All were ailing and teetering on the edge of disaster. I began to imagine dying on my bathroom floor (esophogus finally having ruptured or heart finally giving out), my husband or children finding my cold body covered in vomit. Terrifying, isn't it? Scared me shitless.
So I made the call to a treatment center. I only want a therapist and a dietician, I said. I'm not sick enough to need higher level care, I said. I met with said therapist and dietician, and was told in no uncertain terms that if I did not head immediately to residential treatment (do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars) I was risking my life. I looked at my family, considered their love and need for me. I threw in the towel.
Making the choice to return to treatment - this was my fourth go 'round - was perhaps the most difficult thing I have ever done. I have held tight to my eating disorder for half my life, believing at my very core that it was the only thing that could save me from the horrors in my mind. Living without it was impossible to envision. Giving it up was like giving up the very essence of who I am. I was scared to death. But I was also scared OF death. I knew I was on borrowed time and the end was imminent if I didn't change something drastically.
I will post more in the coming weeks on my experience in treatment, what I learned, what I gained (in knowledge, thank you very much), and how my appreciation for life has grown. Thank you for sticking with me. Please accept my sincere apology for misrepresenting my recovery as I have up until this point. Those of you familiar with eating disorders will understand that lying is part of the disease. To quote one of the many treatment-isms I have picked up, "Secrets keep us sick." No more secrets, my friends.
So. I went back to treatment. It was supposed to be 4-6 weeks. It ended up being 10. 10 weeks of residential treatment, followed by an indefinite number of weeks in Intensive Outpatient Treatment. How'd this happen, you ask? Hell if I know.
See, here's the thing. I lie exceptionally well. I have always had an uncanny ability to make people believe whatever I want them to believe (and, often, what they themselves want to believe). I had everyone convinced that my recovery was strong and reliable. That, though I still struggled with unhealthy thoughts, my behaviors had been under control for some time. That, my friends, was a collossal untruth.
The reality is, I've been in the midst of relapse for over two years. I have vacillated between periods of restricting (at times meeting full diagnostic criteria for anorexia) and binging and purging (nearly always meeting DSM-IV criteria for bulimia). My behaviors were easy to hide, my weight fluctuations easy to explain away. I even kept up this blog, extolling the virtues of healthy living. Oops.
The turning point came when my health began to really suffer and I could no longer deny the danger I was in. My heart, my stomach, my esophogus. All were ailing and teetering on the edge of disaster. I began to imagine dying on my bathroom floor (esophogus finally having ruptured or heart finally giving out), my husband or children finding my cold body covered in vomit. Terrifying, isn't it? Scared me shitless.
So I made the call to a treatment center. I only want a therapist and a dietician, I said. I'm not sick enough to need higher level care, I said. I met with said therapist and dietician, and was told in no uncertain terms that if I did not head immediately to residential treatment (do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars) I was risking my life. I looked at my family, considered their love and need for me. I threw in the towel.
Making the choice to return to treatment - this was my fourth go 'round - was perhaps the most difficult thing I have ever done. I have held tight to my eating disorder for half my life, believing at my very core that it was the only thing that could save me from the horrors in my mind. Living without it was impossible to envision. Giving it up was like giving up the very essence of who I am. I was scared to death. But I was also scared OF death. I knew I was on borrowed time and the end was imminent if I didn't change something drastically.
I will post more in the coming weeks on my experience in treatment, what I learned, what I gained (in knowledge, thank you very much), and how my appreciation for life has grown. Thank you for sticking with me. Please accept my sincere apology for misrepresenting my recovery as I have up until this point. Those of you familiar with eating disorders will understand that lying is part of the disease. To quote one of the many treatment-isms I have picked up, "Secrets keep us sick." No more secrets, my friends.
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